Barstuck
by canadianstuck
Summary: Humanstuck. A down and out Gamzee buys an abandoned candy store and starts turning it into the hottest new bar in town. Feel free to suggest ships or characters you'd like to see in the future!
1. Homeless

It's four in the morning, snowing, and Gamzee is stuck wishing he had better places to be than the streets. An apartment being one of them. His shift at the local pub finished ten minutes ago, and he's been freezing ever since. As a result, he's left huddling under an awning and hoping the snow stops.

Unfortunately for him, no one told this plan to the weather.

Twenty minutes pass, and Gamzee's sure he's freezing to death. Almost without thinking about it, he starts looking at the building across the road. The bricks are dirty, and the windows are shuttered. A chain holds the big doors closed. It looks like a shop of some kind, and it looks abandoned. The word rings through Gamzee's mind. Abandoned. Abandoned. Abandoned means no people, and no people means the building is free for the taking. It's a decision he wouldn't make if he was warm, well-fed, and had cash on him, but Gamzee is none of those things.

All reason leaves as he stands, shaking off the thin coat of snow he's managed to acquire. A quick glance down the street, and he's sure he's alone. Of course he's alone. Who goes out at four in the morning in a snow storm? Other than bouncers down on their luck, of course. He crosses the street, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. Slamming a fist into the chipboard covering the window, he smiles as it cracks. He didn't get a job as a bouncer by being weak after all. Twice more his fist hits the board, cracking it neatly in half. He clambers through the hole. The building isn't exactly warm, but it's a damn sight warmer than outside, and it isn't snowing.

Gamzee crosses to the corner farthest from the hole and curls up, dropping asleep almost instantly.

Morning dawns, but Gamzee doesn't move. His phone—one of the few material possessions he owns—goes off around noon, and he grumbles his way to alertness. Glancing down at the screen, he sighs. One of his oldest friends. And one of the people he doesn't want to talk to today.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? I RANG YOUR DOORBELL LIKE TEN TIMES.

I gOt EvIcTeD bRo.

WTF?

CaMe HoMe FrOm WoRk DrUnK aNd PuNcHeD tHe MoThErFuCkInG lAnDlOrD.

Gamzee wishes he could say that that was the first time he'd ever make a mistake like that, but it wasn't. The bartender at the pub liked him enough to let him mix drinks when the pub was closed, and Gamzee had taken advantage of it. He'd discovered it was one of the few things he was good at.

Sliding his phone back in his pocket, he looks around. He's definitely in an old store of some kind, maybe a candy shop. There is a long wooden counter, a set of nearly ancient scales perched precariously at one end. Tall black shelves line the wall behind the counter, empty and gaping. The floor creaks whenever Gamzee shifts his weight, which brings a smile to his face. He loves old things. In one corner, a grand spiral staircase goes up to a gallery of sorts that runs around the whole room. From the looks of it, it had been where product had been stored before being put on the floor. Kinda cool, in an old school way.

His phone vibrates again, but he ignores it. Karkat will want details, and he's in no mood to give them. His account has enough money to get another apartment, but it will take time. With a last look around, he crawls back out the hole he made the night before.

Outside, the sun is glaring off the snow. The weather seems to have remembered it's spring, because the snow is melting, dripping into the gutters. He has six or seven hours before he needs to be at work, and that means six or seven hours in which to find an apartment.

For the third straight night, Gamzee wakes up on Karkat's shitty old couch. The apartment hunting business hasn't been going well, so he convinced Karkat to let him sleep there for a while. Karkat's already gone when Gamzee wakes up, so he helps himself to coffee and heads out. He's been playing with an idea the last couple days, and he figures he has nothing left to lose.

An hour later, he's sitting in an office, trying to look all up and like a responsible citizen. "So… Mister Makara…" the clerk says, clearly disapproving of the shabby guy in front of her. His hair is down to his shoulders, he's got his makeup done up, and he's in the same hoodie and jeans as ever.

"Yeah sis? I mean, ma'am."

The lady scowls. "You say you want to purchase the old Colby Candy Store downtown." She huffs. "In cash."

"Yeah, that place is a mot—a miracle. A real miracle."

If it's possible, the women's scowl deepens. Gamzee slides the pile of cash across the desk. He's checked. This is legal. Mostly.

There's a long pause, but the woman eventually slides the deed to him. "Sign here," she snaps. He does, takes the deed, and bails. Great. His bank account is nearly empty, he owns a defunct candy shop, and he has to be at work in three hours. He slides his phone out of his pocket, tapping Karkat's number.

BrO cAn I bUy YoUr CoUcH?

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON?

I nEeD sOmEwHeRe To SlEeP iN mY nEw PlAcE.

WHAT NEW PLACE?

My NeW pLaCe.

Because that really counts as an answer. But it will shut Karkat up. Gamzee can practically see him on the other end of the phone. The couch is old, stained, ripped, and just about broken beyond all use. He always seems to be perpetually broke, so a hundred bucks for a couch worth a tenth of that is a good deal.

The phone buzzes.

FINE.

Great. Gamzee now has a job, an old candy shop, and a broken couch. The things dreams are made of, right?

He spends the rest of the afternoon forcing Karkat to help him muscle the couch into the old store, tucking it behind the wooden counter. "Thanks bro," he says once it's in place.

"Yeah well. I can see why you need my shitty couch when you bought this place," Karkat says.

Gamzee shrugs and heads off to work, a letter clutched in his hand. He's a little nervous. This is it, the point he can't go back from. It's his letter of resignation. His bank account is a little bare, but it has just enough for what he's thinking. After all, the only thing he's ever been good at has been mixing drinks and getting drunk.

It's time he puts those talents to use.


	2. Fixing It Up

Every piece of clothing Gamzee owns is covered in paint. He's glad he quit his job in a way, because he could never have come looking like this. Even his hair is multi-coloured instead of its usual shaggy black. There's only one wall left to do though, so he grabs his can of paint and shinnies up the borrowed ladder. Leaning over to fill in the top corner, he suddenly loses his balance and plunges to the floor.

Groaning, Gamzee doesn't even try to sit up for ten minutes, just going through all the body parts that are in pain. At least from this vantage point, he can see his paint job, and man, does it look good.

The wall behind the counter has been painted gold, to counterbalance all those black shelves and cubbies. The wall of the gallery he sprung for and bought black chalkboard paint. Being drunk is always more fun when you can doodle on the wall. Everywhere else is the same rich purple, his favourite colour. It looks pretty good on the whole. Some lights, some booze, some music, and the place is basically ready to open.

The booze is easy to get, as are the lights. Ikea will solve that problem cheaply. The music on the other hand… he doesn't really know what to do for that. It's a dilemma that needs to be solved. All at once, he has a brainwave. Sitting up way too fast, he groans again and winces. Everything still hurts. It would help to remember that.

He slides out his phone and skims through the numbers. There, near the bottom. A DJ who came to the other pub to play once or twice. Gamzee loved his stuff, but it was a little too modern, a little too off the wall for a bunch of college students who just wanted wings and beer. He hits the number, taps out a message, and hesitates for a minute before he pushes send.

HeY DaVe BrO, yOu StIlL iN tHe Dj GaMe?

The response comes back a few minutes later.

yeah i still dj why?

HoW mUcH dO yOu ChArGe PeR gIg?

depends maybe a couple hundred bucks for a night

Gamzee winces. That's out of his budget at the moment, but maybe he can make a deal, at least until his club is up and running and he actually has money in his account again.

WhAt If SoMeBrO oFfErEd YoU a JoB aS a ClUb HeAdLiNeR?

still gotta pay the bills

ClUb HeAdLiNeR aNd, HuNdReD bUcKs, FrEe DrInKs.

Gamzee needs this to work. He knows the allure lots of exposure and a steady gig for a DJ just starting out. His phone buzzes again and he holds his breathing, looking down.

k dude ill do it but if i dont like the job im out

YoU sTaRt ToMoRrOw.

Gamzee feels like singing. He has music. He just needs lights, booze, and some people to show up tomorrow night. This could all still work. Or it could come crashing down and leave Gamzee with nothing but shattered pieces of his last chance and a broken couch.

Since he now has a timeframe, he heads out over to Karkat's place and lets himself in. The door is locked, but Gamzee knows where the spare key is kept. He scrawls a note, leaves it on the kitchen table, and borrows the bike from the yard. He knows Karkat will be pissed, but he's done it before so he figures it's okay.

Two hours later, he returns the bike—Karkat's still not home, so he's lucky that way—and heads back to his project. A bunch of tiny lamps and bare lightbulbs rattle in his backpack. The lamps can fit neatly in the shelves, so he can see what he's doing, and the lightbulbs he can string along the balcony railing, which should light the place just enough.

That done, he grins and shoves the hair out of his face. Paint, lights, music, he made a deal to pick up some booze later—

He stops dead in his tracks as he realizes something, something so important he can't believe it never occurred to him until now. He needs tables, and somewhere to sit. Somewhere to sit at the least, and tables can come later. But where do you get something like that, for practically free? For close to an hour, he agonizes over the question, until his phone buzzes to remind him his order will be here soon. He ordered some of everything and offered the last of his cash to have it delivered, something that the store doesn't usually do, but agreed to because of how much they're going to make from this deal.

A half hour later, he's down to his last two hundred bucks in cash, all his booze is stored on the shelves, waiting to go, the lights are hung, and there's still no tables. Fuck. Gamzee runs his hands through his hair, grimacing as he does so. He needs to install a shower here or something, every other day at Karkat's just isn't cutting it. Frantically, he paces the empty floor, wondering what to do, where he can find free tables. He can't afford paying for them now, not when he needs the last dregs of money to pay Dave and keep everything stocked. This place needs to work out in a big way, or he's going to lose everything.

So caught up in his dilemma, Gamzee doesn't notice the wooden crate in the middle of the floor, abandoned now that it's been emptied of its former contents. "Ow! Motherfucker!" He's still swearing like a sailor when an idea hits him. He gathers all the crates—about twenty in all—and stacks them two high, arranging them in front of the counter. The dusty, paint splattered black sheets he's been using to keep the floor from getting covered in paint get cut up, splattered with more gold and purple, and draped over the crates. There. Almost elegant chairs. Ten, not nearly enough for a club, but enough for the moment.

All that's left is to get the word out by tomorrow night, and pray enough people come. He can't charge a cover—that will kill all the business before it begins, people will think he's pretentious—and he needs to keep the drink prices low so that people order lots. Scaling the shelving, he paints the area just above with chalkboard paint and starts scrawling the liquors available on the wall. Not cocktails—people will know them by name or he'll whip something up—just shots and beers.

Close to midnight, when everything in the room is set up as well as it will ever be, he slides his phone out and taps in a number. A girl he's been friends with for a while, but never really hung out with.

HeY rOxY. WhAt ArE yOu DoInG tOmOrRoW nIgHt?

nothnig why?

Gamzee can't help but smile at her text. She's not known for her spelling in the first place, but she's probably out clubbing at this hour.

NeW cLuB oPeNiNg DoWnToWn. SpReAd ThE wOrD.

what's it cald?

*called

That puts a dent in Gamzee's mood. He still has to name the place. A minute of quick thought later, he taps out a message.

ThE dArK cArNiVaL.

soonds sweet ok

*sounds

And just like that, Gamzee's bar has a name.


	3. Opening Night

With no money for fliers or anything of the sort, Gamzee has simply texted everyone in his contacts and prayed that between them and Roxy, enough people will come tonight. He decided to make the club open from 8pm to 8am. Opens late, for this town anyways, but stays up a good deal later than anything else. In his hometown, there were always people looking for a place to party at 4 in the morning when everyone else had gone home. He's hoping to cash in on those people.

The sound of a truck grinds to a halt outside. Gamzee checks the time on his phone. Just over an hour to go. That must be Dave then, arriving to set up his equipment.

Gamzee hurries outside, where sure enough he's greeted by the lanky blond guy. "Yo bro!" Dave says in his lazy drawl. "Help me set up?"

"Sure, can't be too hard, right?" Gamzee chuckles, grabbing a box out of the back of the truck.

"You'd be amazed," Dave says, completely deadpan.

Thirty minutes later, Gamzee understands why. His arms ache from carrying heavy contraptions that he doesn't begin to understand. It looks cool though. Dave has chosen to set up his stuff on the side of the room opposite the gallery. His speakers and mixers sprawl outwards, gradually moving from tall stacks to foot high speakers, all arranged to match what he calls "the acoustics" of the room. "Can I play a set?"

Gamzee shrugs. "Sure, test everything out."

A minute later, a throbbing bass line fills the room, setting the bottles to rattling. Quirky jazz notes follow a minute later, a combination that is somehow bizarre and completely right. The tune slides up to notes on the edge of hearing before slamming back down into chunky bass. The whole thing shudders to a halt five or so minutes later, and Gamzee is applauding even before the bottles can settle. Dave should be able to get a job at any joint in town, but of course, there is no joint in town quite like this. Gamzee can only hope he'll stay around.

"So when does this place open?"

"Six minutes," Gamzee says, checking his phone for the umpteenth time in the last hour.

Dave raises one neatly arched eyebrow above his shades, the first time he's broken his poker face. "Precise."

Gamzee corrects him and says, "Nervous."

When the alarm on his phone dings, he strides over and throws the door open. There's a sinking feeling—no one is there. Or at least, he thinks no one is there until thin arms throw themselves around his neck.

He bristles, trying to suppress the urge to fight back, until Roxy untangles herself from around his neck. "Hi!" she says, beaming. Gamzee smiles.

"Glad you could make it."

"I brought some friends, I hope you don't mind."

Gamzee can't help but grin as he ushers her and her small troupe in. "Of course not." Glancing at them, he nods. He's met these people at various parties around town. Roxy's girlfriend, Kanaya, who doesn't usually come out clubbing—she's too busy trying to break into the fashion market—her sister Rose, Rose's boyfriend, John, and a tall girl he doesn't know, although he's quickly informed her name is Jane, and she's John's sister. He ushers them to the bar, asks what they want—the first drink is free, because they're his friends, but he makes it clear he has to charge them after, because he needs this to work—and starts mixing drinks.

Roxy asks for something that will taste good, specifying nothing beyond that, so Gamzee toys around until he has a vivid purple concoction and slides it in front of her. This is the test. Roxy knows alcohol like nobodies business—he's heard she works for some big shot wine company, and he believes it—so if she doesn't like it, the club is finished before it even started.

Roxy picks up the glass, swirling the drink around and taking a sip. A grin blooms on her face. "What is this? It's delicious!"

Gamzee lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Just some motherfucking miracles all mixed together."

She giggles and takes another sip. "Whatever."

In short order, everyone has a drink in front of them, and everyone's laughing away. Gamzee can feel himself relaxing. This might turn out okay after all.

Opposite the room, Dave gets his music started, pounding out beats in the nearly empty room. It isn't long before a few curious souls on their way to the pub down the street poke their heads in. Some continue to head on their way, but a few wander in, curious about this new place that seems to have sprung up overnight. The lighting is poor, the room is nearly empty, but there's some faint charm that keeps them there. They buy a drink or two, text a friend, head upstairs and scribble on the chalkboard, liking the place already.

By midnight, the club is practically full. Gamzee is nearly out of a couple types of booze—he'll have to buy more tomorrow—but he has close to five hundred dollars in his safety box. That's enough to pay Dave, buy some bottles tomorrow, and have a hundred dollars left over to buy food for himself and a few more lightbulbs for the club.

On the whole, it's a success, especially when you consider it's only Thursday night. Tomorrow is Friday, and that should bring him some even better success.

By the time the club closes at eight, the sun is up and the place is a mess. Cups are stacked on the bar, empty bottles are shoved in a cabinet, and sticky spilled drinks cover the floor. Sighing, Gamzee knows the sleep he so desperately craves needs to wait a little while longer. Instead, he pulls out his phone and texts Karkat.

Is YoUr DoOr UnLoCkEd?

Without waiting for an answer, he strolls outside, blinking in the bright sun, and starts walking to Karkat's house.

NO WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU TEXTING ME AT THIS UNGODLY FUCKING HOUR?

I nEeD a MoP aNd A bRoOm.

BUY YOUR OWN FUCKING MOP.

KaRbRo. I'm UsInG yOuR sPaRe KeY.

FUCK YOU.

Gamzee knows Karkat well enough to take that as "come on then, whatever." He lets himself in, yells a hello to Karkat, kidnaps the mop and broom, and is gone again inside of ten minutes.

Once he's back at The Dark Carnival, he sets about cleaning up. Sweeping everything, mopping the floor, doing the dishes. At nine, he's done, and crashes to the couch. He falls asleep almost instantly, a beatific smile on his face. Yes, today was a good day. Now he just has to handle tomorrow.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm going to start introducing all the other characters in the next chapter, so if you have any ideas for what people should do (like, Eridan being a hipster clothing worker) or anything like that, feel free to let me know! The more ideas, the merrier!  
**


	4. First Friday Night

A rattle of thunder shakes the room, causing Gamzee to nearly fall off his ladder. He clutches the railing just in time. "Motherfucking storm," he hisses at no one in particular. He spent the day buying more booze and more lightbulbs, and he's working on hanging the new lights up. He's elected to forgo the chairs for now, because the crates seem to be doing just fine.

It's Friday night, the thing that's either going to make him or break him, and it had to pick today off all days to pour. Since four, it's been as if someone is determined to pour an ocean on the city of Skaia, and there's not much Gamzee can do about it. Most people don't want to get dolled up so they can be a mess in the rain after five minutes. Oh well.

Gamzee isn't sure whether or not to be surprised when Dave shows up right on time. He left his equipment here last night, or else he probably wouldn't have risked it being wet. As the boy strolls in, Gamzee scoffs. "Do you ever take those motherfucking sunnies off?" It has to be black as pitch outside, between the coming nightfall and the thick clouds, but the dripping boy is wearing the same glasses as always.

"Nah, bro, cool guys never take off their shades."

"Well who all up and made that rule?"

Dave shrugs. "The first cool guy?"

"Forget it," Gamzee mutters, finishing what he's doing before crashing on the couch behind the bar. He taps Karkat's number into his phone and sighs. He's know the kid for years, longer than he can remember. Grew up together. It's no mistake that whenever he's nervous or whatever he texts him.

KaRbRo, WhEn ArE yOu GoInG tO cOmE cHeCk OuT mY nEw ClUb?  
He doesn't really care if Karkat ever comes to see it—clubbing isn't his thing, he's more of a solitary animal—but it's something to talk about while he waits anxiously for eight to arrive. The phone is silent for almost ten minutes before it buzzes.

I DON'T CLUB, ASSHOLE.

GeE, tHaNkS fOr AlL tHe SuPpOrT kArBrO.

FUCK FINE. I'LL COME TONIGHT.

Gamzee slides the phone back in his pocket with a satisfied smirk. At least one person will come, and that person is Karkat. It could be worse.

At eight, he swings the door open, expecting no one to be there. It's a pleasant shock to find a small crowd of fifteen or so people waiting anxiously, huddled under the old awning to get out of the rain. As they start streaming in, racing to claim seats by the blackboard or the bar, Dave takes the hint and starts the music pounding. Tonight, it's an electronica mix of a skittery bass line.

It takes all of twenty minutes before everyone has a drink and is comfortable chatting. People continue to wander in, dripping wet, so the club is just about full by the time Karkat walks in.

Gamzee can tell right away that Karkat's here, because no one else he knows is that small or that self-conscious. He's surprised at the effort that's gone into it tonight, really. Black skinny jeans with a pair of Doc Martens he got God knows where. Instead of his usual blacks or greys, Karkat is wearing a crimson sweater, tight and knit and very modern. He's wearing contacts, like he usually does when he's out in public, but he's traded the usual mud brown for dark blue, almost purple ones.

Gamzee has to admit, he's never seen his friend look quite so… hot.

Over the noise and energy of the club, he waves Karkat over and pulls him behind the counter. He gives him a quick hug and hands him a drink.

"What's this?" Karkat yells over the noise.

"Long Island Ice Tea," Gamzee yells back. "You look motherfucking nice tonight, Karbro. It's bitch tits awesome that you came out tonight."

Karkat just shrugs and takes a sip. Long Island Ice Teas can knock a grown man on his ass if he's not careful, something Gamzee knows all too well. But he wants his friend to loosen up and have a good night, because he has no idea when the last time Karkat went out and had a drink was.

Around midnight, the rain stops, and people start to come in waves, until there's a line up outside the door. Gamzee makes a mental note to get a bouncer. He's no longer worried the club won't be successful, but he's going to have to make sure it doesn't get trashed either. Out on the dance floor, Karkat is dancing with a mutual friend, a sweet girl named Nepeta. Gamzee isn't totally sure when she got here, but he knows her well enough. His cousin is dating her older sister, so they see a fair bit of each other. She likes a night out on the town, and she can defend herself if anyone tries anything. Still, he feels a bit like an older brother, keeping a careful eye on her. For the moment, she's got Karkat—who is totally trashed by this point—keeping her company, so Gamzee isn't worried.

His phone vibrates, but he's too busy mixing drinks to check it. It isn't until a full fifteen minutes later he manages to sneak a look. A smile spreads across his face as he realizes it's Kurloz. Speak of the devil and all that.

Two messages and half an hour later, Kurloz is dragging Meulin into the club. She wanders off to find Nepeta—who is by this time helping a very drunk Karkat draw a crab on the chalk board—and Kurloz swaggers up to the bar. Gamzee nods. "Hey motherfucker."

Kurloz nods and asks for a shot. As Gamzee pours it, Kurloz starts talking about how he just got fired. That's why he texted Gamzee: he wanted to know if he could qualify for free drinks, since he can't afford any at the moment. Gamzee sees this as a stroke of luck, thinking how he can turn this to his advantage. His cousin is fit, tall, and between the lip piercings and the shaggy hair, he looks decently threatening. Perfect for a bouncer of a popular club.

"So, what if I all up and offered you a job, cous?" Gamzee asks a few shots later.

Kurloz raises an eyebrow. "A job like because you're my cousin so it's really a favour, or you'll pay me?"

"Pay you, give you health care benefits, the whole nine motherfucking yards."

Kurloz shakes his mane of black hair, the one feature he shares with Gamzee. "Deal, little motherfucker."

**A/N: Sorry this one took so long! I tried to get a little GamKar started for the anon who requested it (will develop more in the future!). Please feel free to review and throw out more ideas for characters/ships you would like to see. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Who Turned Out The Lights?

Barstuck 5

Everything is going perfectly. A week into the business, the whole city is abuzz about the new underground club. Word on the street is it's going to be officially rated and reviewed pretty soon, and Gamzee is stoked. He still hasn't bothered to get a bed, or an apartment, and he still sneaks into Karkat's house to use the shower, but everything seems to be going well.

He should know better. Perfect things don't last.

Dave comes in at the usual time and plugs his stuff in, just as Gamzee is plugging in the strings of lights that now criss cross the room, giving it just enough light to see, but leaving the dance floor dark enough to be fun. There's a crackle and the room fills with faint light, and then a sudden pop and crashing darkness.

There's ten seconds of silence, and then Gamzee yells "MotherFUCK!"

The wiring in this place is ancient, something that never even crossed his mind, and now… well, now it's fucking fried. If he shuts the place down after just a week, it will lose all momentum and never recover. But it's got no music and no lights, and things are looking really, really bad.

There's a hiss as Dave lights a cigarette, keeping the lighter open to cast a tiny halo of light. He takes a deep drag and lets it out. Gamzee rolls his eyes. The kid is still wearing his freaking sunglasses. "So what now, boss?" he says, sucking on the smoke.

"Now we're all up and fucked."

"Gee stop sounding so optimistic."

Gamzee snaps. He's usually pretty good, but sometimes… well, everyone loses it sometimes. Hurling the nearest object at the wall (it's a crate) he screams in wordless frustration. The crate shatters, sending wooden splinters. Dave freezes, unsure of what to do.

"Fuck!" Gamzee yells again, collapsing into a sitting position and cradling his head in his hands. He starts muttering to himself, an almost eerie scene when compared to the screaming a moment earlier.

Dave quickly pulls out his phone.

Ten minutes later, Karkat comes bolting into the club, panting. It's obvious he dropped everything to come, and there's good reason. When he and Gamzee were in highschool, if Gamzee somehow went off his meds, he'd flip shit, and Karkat was elected the person to sort him out. It wasn't so much he wanted to as he was the only one who could. Gamzee is a sweet guy, one who means well, but sometimes he goes off the rails. Gets in fights, breaks things.

Karkat drops to his knees beside Gamzee, who is still mumbling into his fingers, hair hiding his face. Resting a hand on his shoulder, Karkat starts half-whispering, words too indistinct for Dave to hear.

"Fuck, dude, it's all good. It's just the lights." Dave gave him a rundown of the problem in the text. "We can fix lights."

"It's all up and motherfucking unmiraculously ruined," Gamzee husks, voice devoid of emotion. He starts babbling about sleeping on the streets and freezing to death, shaking.

Karkat rubs his shoulder again. "No no no. We're gonna fix this fuck up. We've fixed worse. Remember that time in highschool when…" He launches into a narrative of the time Gamzee was about to be expelled for fighting in the hallways and the two of them talked him out of trouble. "See?" he concludes. "We got this fucking thing."

There's a pause before Gamzee grabs Karkat in a tight hug. The smaller guy yelps in surprise, but he hugs back soon enough. "T-thanks Karbro," Gamzee murmurs into his shoulder.

It takes another couple minutes, but eventually Gamzee is calm. His makeup has smeared, so he goes to the bathroom to clean it up. Karkat frowns at the smudges on his sweater before looking around, pulling out his cell to light things up. "So Dave, got any fucking clue what to do?"

Dave just shrugs, lighting another cigarette off his first one.

They're still wondering what to do when there's a knock on the door. Kurloz strides in, stopping a step beyond the doorway. Light from the street bleeds into the room. "So… is the club closed tonight?" he asks, confused why everything is dark and silence, ten minutes from open.

"All the fuses blew," Karkat replies. Gamzee is nowhere to be seen, so it falls to him to explain. He doesn't have many details, but he shares the few he does have.

"Shit," is all Kurloz has to say once he has the details sorted out.

The other boys nod in tandem. "Hey, know what?" Kurloz says suddenly, "Let me phone Meulin, see what she thinks."

Karkat sighs. This is quickly becoming a group problem, and they have five minutes. He can see people starting to arrive outside. This job falls to him then. "Can you promise me lights in an hour?" he asks.

"Well… I don't know…"

"Buy some fucking candles if you have to! Someone is bound to have an iPod, we can use that for sound, but can you promise me some fucking lights?!" he yells.

Kurloz blinks and nods.

Karkat heads outside and looks at the people waiting to get in. "Bit of a trouble with the electricity folks. We'll be open in about an hour. There's a pub down the road. Get a drink the come by."

A snobby looking guy with a weird purple streak in his hair frowns. He tosses his hipster scarf over his shoulder and huffs. "Amateurs. W-what are you doing about it?" he snaps.

It's all Karkat can do not to roll his eyes. "We'll figure it the fuck out." He heads back inside before the guy can reply, slamming the door and plunging the club back into darkness. "Someone give me good fucking news and the other someone get Gamzee!" He isn't sure why he's taking charge, but no one else is, and he owes his friend that at least.

There's a clatter as Dave uses his lighter to see his way to the bathroom, where Gamzee is still cleaning off his smeared makeup, and Kurloz grins, the faint light in the room glinting off his teeth. "Got it. Meulin asked her sister, and little sis thinks she has the answer. She said find any empty bottles and buy baby oil and she'll do the rest."

Karkat tilts his head. "…I'm not even going to fucking ask."

"If you aren't going to ask, go buy some baby oil. There's a pharmacy a couple blocks away."

"Take your bike, it will be faster."

Kurloz shoots him a glare (although Karkat can't see it in the gloom) but heads out. A few seconds later, his motorcycle roars to life and he takes off, the roar fading.

Gamzee comes out of the bathroom with Dave. He doesn't even bother asking where Kurloz went, just grabs Karkat up in a hug. "Thanks bro. You got my back."

Anyone else and Karkat would hit them. But Gamzee… he's got problems, and sometimes a bro just needs to hug it out.

Once Gamzee seems to have control of himself again, he sighs. "So anyone know how we're going to fix this?"

"Yep," Karkat says.

"How?"

"Just wait and fucking see."

**A/N - Thanks for reading! As always, if you have suggestions or requests, throw them at me and I'll see what I can do!**


	6. Glow sticks and Car Batteries

Gamzee is wearing a hole in the floor from pacing. "Where is she?" he mutters under his breath. He can tell from looking around that his dream is crumbling to the ground, but he can't have another breakdown, not now. Karkat is still looking at him like he's a volcano about to blow, so he sucks in a deep breath and checks his phone. Twenty eight minutes until the promised opening.

Just as he's about to call Nepeta, she and Meulin run in, giggling. Both are carrying shopping bags. Meulin signs something, but Gamzee doesn't catch it. It takes him a minute to decode her way of communicating at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times.

Nepeta must see the tension about to blow, because she quickly says, "Is the oil here yet?"

"No, Kurl-" Karkat gets cut off as the roar of a motorcycle pulls up and dies outside. Less than a minute later, the big man is inside, chucking Gamzee his backpack. Gam catches it out of instinct, staring at it in confusion.

Only then does Karkat realize he was still in the bathroom cleaning his face when Kurloz left. "It's baby oil. Nepeta seems to have a plan." He gives the smaller girl a pointed look, and she takes over flawlessly.

"It's purrfectly simple really"-her cat puns are her way of dealing with stress, so even she is feeling the pressure-"and all we need are empty bottles."

It takes Gamzee a minute to realize that's his cue. He's suddenly grateful for the fact he hasn't taken empty bottles back to the depo yet. He disappears into the farthest corner and drags out cardboard boxes full of empty bottles.

In short order, there's a neat assembly line going. Gamzee and Kurloz wash the bottles, Karkat fills them with oil, and Nepeta and Meulin do the rest. From within the depths of the shopping bags, the girls pull out package after package of glow sticks. Separated into colour, they're cracked and slit open, pouring the glowing chemicals into the oil, where it swirls and provides a faint glow. It'll take a while to get any sort of light going, but it'll work.

Dave, on the other hand, is a little more pressed. He could just throw an iPod into a battery powered dock-he could, and probably should-but that's not how djs do things. He's got to figure out sound somehow, and good sound. There's only one thing for it. He pulls out a phone and texts his brother.

Ten minutes later there's a loud roar as a truck pulls up. Gamzee snaps his head up to look as the door is shouldered open. In the dimly lit doorway, he can make out nothing but a shock of hair so blond it's almost white. Hair that's the exact same colour as Dave.

"Yo," says the guy to the group in general before turning to Dave. "You're lucky. There was a stack in the workshop." Dave follows him outside and comes wobbling in a minute later with a stack of car batteries. They should be enough to run the speakers, for a while at least. If he only wires up the most important, well, he could probably play all night.

The other guy leaves. He stayed only long enough to drop the batteries off. As the food swings shut behind him, the murmur of the crowd filters into the club. Six minutes to the promised opening.

Dave quickly attaches cables and flips switched, smiling as dull red lights filter into the room, overlayed with a hiss of static.

With two minutes to go, the room is just bright enough to see between all the bottles. A pair of flashlights have been scrounged up and used to illuminate the menu. It's as good as it's going to get. Gamzee can just see the other side of the room. That's about as good as it's going to get. He nods at Kurloz, who cracks his knuckles and strides to the door, tossing it open and taking his stance just to the side.

People start to filter in, and it's clear some of them are unimpressed with the makeshift lights. More often than not though, there's a gasp and a whisper to a friend, as if the bottled light is the coolest thing they've ever seen. Soon enough, the music starts, a slippery tune of steady bass and skittery high notes. Gamzee starts pouring drinks and shots and running tabs. He's getting good at this.

At some point, Nepeta runs out and gets a stack of batteries and starts fiddling until she can make some of the strings of lights glow. They're faint and she had to change them every couple hours, but they help and make the place look even cooler.

By eleven, the club is packed, and more people wait by the door, anxiously waiting to be let in. Karkat is sitting on the couch behind the bar in case Gamzee needs help, Nepeta's dealing with lights, Meulin is occasionally adding more glow sticks to the bottles, Kurloz is now and again walking inside to break up spats, and Dave is flawlessly filling the room with music.

Gamzee himself has a lazy grin on his face as he gets into the swing of things. He doesn't need to read labels because he knows where everything is kept, which is a small blessing. When he runs out of glasses, he ducks out to collect empties and wash enough to make more drinks. It's about fifteen minutes of every hour, but it's long enough to make some of the snobby people angry. He doesn't care. The Dark Carnival is open, and for now, that's all he wants or needs.

**A/N: I am so sorry for temporarily abandoning this! The summer has been way too crazy to write, but I should be back with regular updates from here on out. Thanks for sticking with me guys!**


	7. Justice

Somewhere around two in the morning, Gamzee has to deal with the next problem. The girls are still managing the lights, music is still pounding, and Karkat's behind the counter washing the glasses now. It's enough to give Gam his first breather in hours, and it lasts all of a minute before it's interrupted.  
"Excuse me," a rather demanding voice says in a tone that suggests Gam better sit up and listen.  
"Yeah bro?" he replies as he looks up from his couch, trying to figure out who's talking to him. It's hard to do in the especially dim light, so all he can make out is a pair of red glasses, a white cane, and a shock of black hair.  
"Sis. Anyways. I'm from the PD. Just checking you have a liquor license. Routine procedure."  
That would all be well and good except for one thing. Gam didn't even know you had to have a license. And now a cop is demanding to see it. He bolts to his feet and opens his mouth, concocting some elaborate lie, before realizing he's too tired and under too much pressure for that to have any chance of working.  
Instead, he looks at the ground, shaggy hair hiding his face. "There isn't one," he mutters, almost inaudible. "I... didn't know."  
"Well," says the woman, "there it is. I'll have to ask you to close the establishment."  
Inside his chest, Gam can feel his heart breaking in two. This was it. His one last hurrah, the last chance, the one last miracle he was granted. "Isn't there anything I can do?" he asks, desperation seeping into his voice. "Get it tomorrow? Please sis. I didn't know I needed any motherfucking license." Any other time, he'd try and be respectful when he's talking to a cop. Right now, he couldn't care less.  
The woman doesn't seem impressed. Probably she's heard it all before, all the pleas and excuses in the book. She shakes her head and says, "Justice is blind. It doesn't make exceptions."  
Gam slumps back onto the couch, head in heads, nearly crashing into Karkat, who's finished all the glasses for now. "Hey, the fuck?" he yelps, stumbling out of the way.  
When Gam doesn't answer, Karkat looks up at the woman. He squints in confusion before grinning. "Hey, Terezi! What are you doing here?"  
The woman tilts her head to the side. "Karkles? What are you doing here?"  
"I asked first."  
Gamzee looks up. "You two know each other?"  
Karkat shrugs. "We used to live across the street from each other."  
"As good as it is to see you, Karkles," she says, smirking and adjusting her glasses as she says "see", "I have to be on my way. Justice has been done already."  
"Woah wait. What fucking justice?"  
"This club is operating without a license. So I have served notice that it has to close down."  
Karkat blinks in surprise and looks at Gamzee, who's resumed his early posture. He knows how much this means to his friend. Normally he wouldn't dare argue with Terezi, but Gam is more important right now. "Look, he didn't know. Let the guy have a day. I'm sure this can be sorted out."  
Gamzee and Terezi both turn their full attention on Karkat. "I can't," Terezi says simply.  
"Yes you can. It's an honest mistake. It's not justice to punish the innocent."  
"Ignorance of the law is no excuse."  
"Maybe not," Karkat admits, "but don't you think there's something to be said for... for criminal reform?" He's grasping at straws, but it's the best he can do.  
There's a long pause before Terezi speaks again. "Well... I suppose I could come back in a few days. But that's it."  
Karkat grins. "You're a saint."  
Terezi just smiles and leaves, leaving Gamzee to sit and stare at Karkat. "That's twice you've saved my club tonight. You're a motherfucking miracle, bro. I owe you so fucking much."  
Even in the lowlight, he can see Karkat blushing faintly and shrugging one shoulder. "It's nothing."  
Gam knows better than to push a compliment on Karkat. The guy may be tiny, but he's got a lot of fire. If he doesn't believe the compliment, fine, but Gam will just mention it again later.  
Checking his watch, Gam sighs. His break, which was only supposed to be ten minutes, has stretched to twenty, and there's a small but thirsty line forming at the bar. With a stretch that pops his joints, he strides back over to his post, smiles lazily, and starts pouring drinks. Anyone who hasn't know him for years wouldn't guess anything is wrong. They don't see the tension in his neck, the jerkiness of his usually languid movements. They just see the smile and hear the laugh and taste the drink they've been handed.  
They'd never guess he's wondering how to get a license in under a week, or how to get whatever credentials that requires.  
The crowd eventually thins, the last person leaving at about seven in the morning. It's an early night, all things considered, but Gamzee is still exhausted. Once the door is closed, the music cuts off. He hands Dave his money and thanks him, their usual little ritual. Nepeta is sleeping on the couch beside Meulin, both curled up and innocent looking. Kurloz has grabbed a broom and is sweeping up, something not a part of his job, but something he's done the past two days nonetheless. Karkat has gone back to doing the dishes.  
That leaves Gamzee to do the rest. He pours out the oil filled bottles, cleaning them and packing away. People seemed to love the lights, so he'll do it again, because the crowd has to be kept happy. Once that's done, he starts counting the money. He made almost a thousand dollars tonight, and once he buys more booze and oil and pays everyone, he'll still have a profit of four hundred. It's not a lot, but it will go straight in the bank.  
Work all done, sun well above the horizon, he wakes the girls up. Meulin walks out with Kurloz, bike roaring to life a minute later. Dave offers Nepeta a ride, and off they go. "Thanks Karbro," Gamzee says wearily when they're the only two left.  
"Don't fucking worry about it," Karkat says with a shrug.  
Gamzee mumbles something as he crashes onto the couch.  
"What?"  
He sighs. "I said, text me in a couple hours. I need to... Get... License..." Gamzee mumbles again, barely finishing the sentence before falling asleep.  
Karkat stares at him for a second before tossing a thin blanket over his friend. "Night bro. Sweet dreams." He lets himself out silently, leaving Gamzee to dream of drinks to serve and things to do.

**A/N: See, I said I was back! Thanks for reading, and as usual, feel free to send me suggestions. I try to put as many in as I can (or building up to them for later *coughs most of the shipping requests I have yet recieved*) so don't be shy!**


	8. License

Gamzee's phone goes off at noon, and he struggles awake. He's only had three hours of sleep, but that will have to do for the day. He has to go get a license, through some miracle or another.

With a yawn that makes his jaw crack, he sits up and stretches, popping almost every joint in his body. Belatedly, he realizes that the fact his phone went off means he has a text.

GET YOUR LAZY ASS OFF THE COUCH.

Good old Karkat. Dependable as always. Slouching down, Gam rummages through a crate tucked below a counter that holds his few clothes. A pair of jeans, a pair of Bali pants, a couple of old shirts, and a hoodie. Most of them are wrinkled and dirty, but the Bali pants and one of the black shirts is okay. He throws them on and makes a note to do laundry. His phone goes off again as he's shimmying into his pants. WIth one hand, he fumbles at the keypad until it lights up.

LAST WARNING. UP TO FACE THE GLORIOUS FUCKING DAY.

AlRiGhT aLrIgHt.

GOOD. DO YOU NEED A RIDE SOMEWHERE?

BrO. gO tO wOrK, i'Ll Be MoThErFuCkInG fInE.

With that, he chucks his phone in his pocket and heads out to face the day. The sun is shining brightly, and he's blinking for a good minute before he can see. Standing on the sidewalk, it just now occurs to him that he doesn't have the first idea where to go. Pulling out his phone again, he scrolls through the few numbers and taps Roxy's.

HeY sIs. WhErE wOuLd I gEt A lIcEnSe?

for wut?

Gam is frankly amazed that she's conscious at this hour, let alone coherent (she's usually in bed until 3 or so, waking up with just enough time to get ready for her next assignment), but he's not going to question his luck.

ThE bAr. CoPs SaId I nEeD oNe To KeEp OpEn.

There's a long pause, and he shifts on the sidewalk, looking at the outside of his club. The awnings are torn and faded and dirty, barely sheltering the stained sidewalk beneath them. One of the outside windows is cracked, another gone altogether and covered in plyboard. The frames are splintered, dirty wood that might once have been white and are now dingy grey. Above the door (which barely hangs onto the hinges) is a dim yellow square where the sign once was. Gamzee makes a note to repair this all, because a swinging club can't look like a dying gasp, not if it wants to attract patrons that have money to spare.

His phone finally buzzes again and he checks the screen.

try the concil dontown

*council

**downton

***DOWNTOWN

Maybe he wasn't right about her alertness quite yet. Sliding the phone back to his pocket, he sighs. The council building is ages away, nearly an hour and a half on the bus. He has the pocket change, but it will take all day to get there and if there's something he needs, he can't exactly run home and get it. It isn't like he has another option, so he walks to the bus stop, rubbing his wrist across his eyes.

It's half an hour before the bus comes, but it finally does, so he hops on. It's empty until closer to downtown, when a few men in suits start getting on, heading for business lunches where they'll sip a glass of wine and make enough money to feed Gam for six months.

The bus lurches to a stop outside the office buildings, and he lopes off, searching for the council building. It's tall and elegant and reminds him a little bit of a wedding cake, all layers and frosting and opulence bordering on the ridiculous.

He takes a deep breath and walks in, feeling conspicuously underdressed. The lobby matches the outside, all pristine white marble and rubber plants. There's a mahogany desk where a disapproving secretary eyes him over the top of her glasses. Her hair is pinned up in an elaborate Japanese looking style, and her red dress is hot off the runways.

Gamzee wants to turn and run before he has to talk to this imposing woman, but he really has no choice. Walking over, he smiles faintly. "Hey sis. I need to talk to someone about getting a license for a club." He's trying so hard to be polite, to drop all his usual slang, that it nearly hurts, but he'll do whatever it takes to keep this one last thing of his alive.

The woman looks at him and sighs, before picking up a phone and saying a few rapid words into the other end in a language Gam doesn't understand. When she hangs up, she looks at him again, and in perfect English says, "Sixth floor." She doesn't add a room or a person, so Gamzee hesitates before slinking away to the stairs.

All the way up, he curses as colourfully as he can (sailors and truckers alike would be shocked at his language) under his breath. It's not so much the woman being rude as it is him hating the situation he's in, hates depending on someone he's never met for his livelihood. At the top, he walks through the door, landing in another lobby. It's almost exactly the same as the one downstairs, just a little bit smaller and with an extra plant in the corner.

There's a second lady seated at the desk, but this one smiles. She looks like she could be related to the woman downstairs, but Gamzee doesn't choose to ponder that. "Inside," she chirps. "He's waiting for you."

With a nagging sense of foreboding, Gamzee pushes the door open and steps inside. A bald man is sitting at a desk piled high with papers. His suit is the green of bottle glass, and his tie is startlingly white. "Good afternoon," he says politely. "What can I do for you, Mister...?"  
Theres a brief moment of hesitation as Gamzee tries to figure out how to introduce himself. Deciding that sounding official is probably in his best interest, he holds out a hand and says, "Makara. Gamzee Makara."

The man reaches over and shakes his hand once, firm but not trying to break the bones in his hand. "You may call me Scratch."

It's a weird last name, but Gam doesn't comment. "What can I do for you, son?" says Scratch again, with a little more force behind it this time. Clearly, this is a busy man.

"I need a license for a new club? To serve liquor?"

"Ah. Can I see some certification?"

Oh fuck. Gamzee doesn't have a certification, for anything. Still, he pulls out his wallet, making a show of going through it, before his fingers stumble on a piece of paper he's long since forgotten about. His face lights up as he pulls it out and hands it over. The pub he worked for, when he first started, two years ago, made him take a course in handling alcohol. They give him some bit of paper to prove it, nothing official, more a receipt for the twenty dollars than a certificate, but it will do. He hopes it will, anyways. He can't afford it not to.

Scratch takes it with the barest hint of a frown and examines it before he hands it back. "Formal training?" he asks, a trace of doubt leaking into his voice.

"Yes," Gamzee answers. "I worked as a bartender for two years." Okay, not quite true, he worked as a bouncer, but he had to take the basic course to even work in a bar. And he did work there for two years. He can only hope the little lie doesn't show on his face.

"And now you've endeavored to open a business of your own?" He asks it like a question, but it's really a statement, a we-know-you're-business-rests-in-our-hands moment just to show he knows exactly what's at stake. Gamzee can't bring himself to do anything but nod. "Very well. Tell me about the establishment."

For the next several minutes, he tries to answer as best he can, occasionally stumbling and looking to slip into slang before he catches himself. He describes the gallery, the patrons, the music, the drinks. He talks about the lights in a bottle and the tables made of fabric covered crates. After a moment, he starts talking about his friends. The people who he trusts and relies on because, let's face it, without them, this project wouldn't work. He simply cannot do it on a few hours sleep by himself every night.

When at last he finishes, sure he's about to be rejected, Scratch steeples his fingers. "I see. Am I to understand then that the establishment has already been in operation for a number of days?"

Gamzee closes his eyes. "Yes," he mutters, knowing he cannot lie his way out of this one. "But I didn't know I needed a license until last night."

There is silence in the small room, as Scratch seems to consider things and weigh all the options available to him. Gamzee busies himself staring at his shoes, rocking back and forth from left leg to right leg and back again.

He is brought back to reality by the scratch of a pen as Scratch makes a few marks on a sheet of official looking paper. Carelessly, he scrawls a signature across the bottom, blowing on the ink for a moment to dry it before handing it over. "Two hundred dollars," he says smoothly.

"I'm not going to bribe you and get locked up later," Gamzee says quietly, looking wounded.

Scratch rolls his eyes, his first visible sign of emotion, before sighing. "It's not a bribe, dear boy, but rather the standard price for a consultation and licensing agreement." He rifles through the stack of papers before handing one over. It standard type, signed by the mayor, it dictates the cost of various licenses. The one for serving liquor is indeed marked at two hundred.

From his wallet, he scrapes together enough crumpled bills to pay and hands them over. "Thank you," he manages, before grabbing the license and heading out the door. He doesn't look at the cheerful secretary, or even the bitchy one downstairs. Instead, he heads straight outside and to the bus stop, sure some horrible mistake has been made. He's sure that this is a trap of some kind, that somewhere, the lady cop from yesterday is waiting around a corner to snatch him away and lock him up.

Paranoid, that's all it is, he tells himself, just the results of last night's mental stress, straining cracks that will take a while to heal. Paranoia, pure and simple.

But he can't shake the feeling, and so he sits on a park bench and bites his lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. It's largely the aftereffects of last night's panic, but it's something he needs to control. He needs to go home and open the club. He needs to be there to smile and nod and talk to a hundred strangers.

He needs all of these things because they have become a semblance of a routine, and in the doing so, they have given him something healthy (or at least healthier) to cling to. The routine helps with whatever it is his brain does, and so he just needs to recognize this is a departure of routine that can soon be fixed.

But what he really, really needs to do is get on the bus that's just arrived.

Fumbling for his pocket change, he pays the fair and slides into a seat in the very back of the bus. He stares out the window and gets lost in the scenery sliding by, forcing himself to be calm. The last thing he needs is one more breakdown, especially when he doesn't have someone like Karkat nearby to calm him down. He just needs to hold on for a little while longer, long enough to have a business that he can hire other people to help with, long enough to get an apartment instead of a broken couch, long enough to survive.

Because deep down, that's all Gamzee is trying to do.

Survive.

**A/N: So I know that this one didn't really have a lot of suggestions incorporated in (sorry!) but hopefully there'll be more in the next one. One of the problems of having character development scenes I guess :P As always, feel free to post in the reviews or send me a pm with things you'd like to see in the future! Cheers :)**


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